


If At First You Succeed....

by Elkian (SuperImposed)



Category: Xiaolin Showdown (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Everyone is Dead, Gen, Sad, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, The Villains Won, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 16:43:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14919096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperImposed/pseuds/Elkian
Summary: ...try, try again?Raimundo joined Wuya. And Wuya won.





	If At First You Succeed....

**Author's Note:**

> Wassup this has been in my docs for like 200 years so I may as well share. Aside from some very minor editing this has not been touched since 2015 and I have no further direction for it so *yeets*

There were few sights as beautiful as the dawn light glinting off the easternmost buildings. The bright sparks glimmering, slowly sweeping the entire city under a blanket of molten gold. Even now, it could still take his breath away.

 

Rio De Janeiro. His city. _His_ city. A reward from his most benevolent mistress, as was the rest of his wonderful Brazil, South America, and even most of North America.

 

(Except for Washington D.C. and NYC, which were mere smoldering holes in the map.)

 

He ruled over Rio with a velvet touch, not iron fist; it was, after all, as much home as the town of his birth, and he loved it and its people. He would do so, so much to keep it safe and well.

 

The streets below were already populated, the throng even more varied than it had been in his youth. No wonder as to why - the Western Hemisphere housed the only halfway free countries, Brazil in particular. At its borders stood an obligatory honor guard of dutiful and absolutely ruthless golems.

 

Raimundo paced before the windowed penthouse wall, the morning light casting unearthly shadows beside him. He’d declined Wuya’s offer of his own castle, as he had the contingent of rocky ‘guards’. An apartment - well, a whole condo to himself - was more his style, and fit into his beautiful Rio much better. It still had a giant golden R on the outside, a remnant of childhood ego.

 

God, he hated himself.

 

One fist clenched against the window - lightly, he didn’t want to blow glass out into the streets again - as he glowered out into the undoubtedly warm day.

 

Despite what… _they_ might have said, teased him about, Raimundo was no idiot. Right now, he played the role of loyal and diligent servant, as he had for years. But in the back of his mind, a plan had been percolating - well, okay, _fermenting_ \- over that time. He trained often, reading everything he could about Xiaolin techniques and elemental control. When he ran out of those, he turned to every other art he could think of - capoeira, aikido, quigong, muay thai, taekgyeon, and… tactics.

 

When asked by the boss lady, he had told her a convenient truth - that he had more or less fallen ass-backwards into his post, and it would take a lot of work to catch up to her. He’d heavily implied his desire to be a _worthy_ warrior of hers, which she had of course taken hook and all.

 

First thing Raimundo had learned about supervillains: Each and every one of them had an ego bigger than Omi’s head.

 

He’d been surprised that Wuya hadn’t dropped him like a bad habit (or Spicer, who was, weirdly enough, Rai’s subordinate. How the world turns.) as soon as she could, and had rolled with it.

 

So here he was, Raimundo Pedrosa: Valued warlord, Emperor of Brazil, and traitor in both past and future. _Near_ future, with any luck.

 

The former monk of Wind took a cleansing breath, and stepped back from the window. Tonight. He’d do it tonight. He’d see her, and she wouldn’t suspect a thing, and this nightmare would finally be over. No more putting it off.

 

He grimaced, shaking his head at the slight but significant internal tremor. He was _not_ afraid. He was ready. He _was_.

 

Half-consciously, Raimundo found himself heading towards the cabinet in his bedroom. Well, if there was ever a time…

 

He pulled the key off the back of his ever-present pendant. The lock clicking open was almost obscenely loud, up here in the rooms where only wind was heard.

 

Behind a hidden panel, there was a box. And in the box… was the past.

 

He took the album out first, careful fingers tracing lightly over faded photographs, faded faces.

 

Kimiko. Clay. Omi. Dojo. Master Fung.

 

Here was the shot Kimiko had taken their first day, snapped perfectly in the second between Raimundo tipping the bucket, and Omi’s meditation demonstration being rudely interrupted. Clay in the back, just noticing what was happening; Master Fung and Dojo almost out of the shot, both covering slight smiles.

 

Here was a sticker set from a photo booth in Tokyo; there was the holographic print Kimiko had made specially for him, showing the other three young monks standing triumphant over a wounded Spicer, Wu in hand, Dojo’s back to the camera as the dragon failed to out-wriggle the timer. He’d been sick, but she’d made sure he hadn’t missed out.

 

Here was Master Fung showing off some absurdly fancy moves; and here was the surprisingly delicate ink painting Omi had made (detailing his own exploits, of course, and adding about twenty pounds of muscle and three feet of height to himself); there was a flat piece of wood that Clay had carved, showing the skyline of his farm, and here was one of Dojo’s scales, stuck to the page.

 

Not for the first time, Raimundo felt silent tears slide down his cheeks, and he put the album away. Once, Wuya had found the box on a visit. He’d thought she was going to burn it, at first; he was still relieved she hadn’t.

 

Would have been a pain in the ass to have spent all that time planning, only to waste it all on an unplanned berserker rush.

 

But she’d merely put it back, given him an unreadable smile, and ended the visit early. He still didn’t know what that was about.

 

Steeling himself, Raimundo began to pick items out of the box, careful not to crush anything with the album.

 

One of Kimiko’s favorite hairclips (now sadly snapped in half, but no longer smeared with dirt and- mud), and the similarly broken and useless Tangle Web Comb. For a while it had been Kimiko’s favorite Wu, and she’d even accommodated for it in her ever-varying hairstyles when they went out.

 

Clay’s carving knife, and a half-finished figure of Master Fung. One of the Master monk’s delicate paper flowers, still miraculously unbent. Dojo’s stuffed Fung cuddle toy.

 

Of Omi, he had nothing, not even the short kid’s favorite Wu. The young monk’s perpetually spartan living meant Raimundo had little in the way of mementos.

 

Joke all he did, deep down, Omi _had_ been Raimundo’s favorite monk. Infuriatingly arrogant and condescending, incapable of seeing his own glaring flaws, and at the same time completely baffled by idioms of any kind, and far too gullible for his own good. But kind, and honest, and straightforward in a way Raimundo hadn’t known existed until meeting the little brat.

 

He missed him. He missed _all_ of them. And he had a feeling that by the end of the night, he wouldn’t be missing them anymore.

 

\---------

 

Things could never go smoothly for him, could they?

 

He arrived at Wuya’s castle in the middle of some serious chaos. Chunks of stone rattled off the top of the building, forcing the former monk to harness his Wind powers and dart up between the falling boulders. No _way_ was he taking the stairs. Too long, and the roof would probably collapse on him halfway up.

 

The source of the localized disaster was a literally epic battle taking place on one of the highest floors. Raimundo slipped into the window and stared as Wuya tossed flames and golems alike at the fleet-footed man, who was giving _better_ than he got.

 

For the first time, Raimundo was faced with the thought that someone (besides a millenia-plus-dead monk) could actually beat Wuya. It was a worrying thought. Because… because _he_ was the one who was going to end her, dammit!

 

The former monk realized that the two were screaming more than spellwords at each other.

 

“I gave you a chance, you ancient _hag!_ Do you really think your empire so great as to challenge _me_?”

 

“You didn’t lift a finger to help me! All those centuries, all that history, for what? _NOTHING!_ ” Wuya tossed an unfamiliar symbol at the man, green fire twisting into writhing, ruddy flames. The man dodged most of the mark, hissing in pain when it caught the side of his arm. The spell appeared to effortlessly burn through the cloth and armor, and the flesh beneath was little better.

 

The man loosed an inhuman yowl and lobbed an entire rock sentry at the witch’s head. Wuya shrieked and tried to dodge, ending pinned under her own creation.

 

The armored man panted heavily as he approached, limping slightly and clutching the wounded arm. Wuya writhed, looking equally if not more exhausted, unable to free herself. “So ends the Heylin witch,” the man sneered. He raised the uninjured arm, and the cloth ripped away to reveal impossibly sharp green claws.

 

Raimundo didn’t even realize he’d moved until he heard the sound of tearing flesh.

 

He’d rammed the sword he’d brought for this special occasion - not a Wu, but serviceable all the same - into the man’s back, straight through armor, hair, and bone.

 

He sucked in a shocked breath, only to yelp as the man’s head whipped around to glare at him. Okay, this guy was definitely not human. Raimundo yanked the sword out as quickly as possible and jumped back, calling on thin air to double the leap.

 

Just as well he did, for he was immediately proven right - the man’s armor _burst_ off, and the attacker morphed into some kind of grotesque mockery of a dragon. He advanced on Raimundo, arm and chest still bleeding - if shallowly - and eyes sparking with fury.

 

The _thing’s_ tail whipped forward, slamming the former monk into the wall with nigh-shattering force - so that’s why the place had been falling apart.

 

It was clearly weakened, though, but already starting to heal. Raimundo knew that if he was going to beat this thing, he had to do it _now,_ before it recovered.

 

The creature lunged again, and only pure muscle memory saw the former monk through the attack, bringing his sword into much-practiced blocks without even thinking. When the beast hesitated, he parried, retaliating with greater force as it fell back.

 

It made a critical error, stumbling as it set foot into a hole in the floor, and Raimundo unthinkingly took its head off.

 

Acrid green smoke exploded out, leaving behind the decapitated form of the man. Raimundo watched it for several seconds before concluding that it _probably_ wasn’t going to get back up.

 

“Well, done, Raimundo,” Wuya hissed breathlessly, smiling despite the pain she must be suffering. Her warlord strode over, barely limping, sword still tightly clasped. “Help me out here, won’t- you?”

 

The witch stared at the blade buried in her sternum, hands twitching weakly as if to grasp it. “Rai… mundo? Why?”

 

He tried to glare as coldly as he could into her watering eyes.

 

(It’s just the pain getting to her, he told himself.)

 

“Because my friends are gone… thanks to you.”

 

Wuya’s slender hand wavered upwards, an echo of the cheek-patting motion she so often employed with him.

 

“I… thought… I… was… your friend….”

 

The hand hit the floor with a jarring _thunk_ , making Rai jump.

 

He stared at the cooling corpse, and slowly sank to his knees.

 

“Shit.” He wrapped his arms around his head, a child trying to ward off a nightmare. “Shit. Shit. _Shit!_ ”

 

He took a clumsy kick at the body of his mentor, overbalancing and falling on his ass. He let his whole body hit the floor, flat on his back. There shouldn’t have been tears in his eyes.

 

“Shit...”


End file.
